


All Along the Watchtower

by onlyandromeda



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feels, Loss, Railroad Plot as Canon, Revenge, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 07:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyandromeda/pseuds/onlyandromeda
Summary: Deacon and Whisper have loved, and lost, and now they're looking to right the wrongs of their respective pasts.Inspiration from "All Along the Watchtower"





	All Along the Watchtower

**Author's Note:**

> Regardless of whether you have or have not listened to the song, I recommend Bear McCreary's version from Battlestar Galactica. You can find this version on Youtube. Original song written and performed by Bob Dylan.

_“There must be some way out of here”_

_Said the Joker to the Thief_

_“There’s too much confusion_

_I can’t get no relief_

_Businessmen they drink my wine_

_Plowmen dig my earth_

_None of them along the line_

_Know what any of it is worth”_

 

_“No reason to get excited”_

_The Thief he kindly spoke_

_“There are many here among us_

_Who feel that life is but a joke_

_But you and I, we’ve been through that_

_And this is not our fate_

_So let us not talk falsely now_

_The hour’s getting late”_

 

_All along the watchtower_

_Princes kept the view_

_While all the women came and went_

_Barefoot servants too_

_Outside in the distance_

_A wildcat did growl_

_Two riders were approaching_

_The wind began to howl_

* * *

 

 

               Tension had built steadily over the few hours that it had taken for Tinker Tom to adjust the molecular relay. He’d taken pieces of crayon scribbled paper and turned it into a physical, complex contraption that would, hypothetically, break the body down to the molecular level and transmit it to the Institute.

               Deacon stared at Whisper from across the room. She hadn’t noticed his gaze. In fact, her eyes hadn’t moved off the platform for quite some time. Her steady glare at the contraption was hard to decipher, and that was new for him.  He’d been planted on the couch for a while, finger tips steepled together as he contemplated what was about to happen. It tore him to pieces to know that the one person he’d come to care about since the death of his wife was about to be torn apart without regard as to whether the machine would _actually_ slap her back together again.

               The thought alone must have been terrifying. One must question the existence of a soul in those moments. If it existed, would it make it through such a process? How would it feel to cease to exist in one instant, then exist again in the next? Would it feel like eons passing? Would you ever truly be whole again if the process worked? And worse yet, what if it truly destroyed you? What if when you ceased to exist, that were it? Would the conscience even register the change of being something one moment, and nothing forevermore? Such questions plagued Deacon, and he wasn’t even the person going through the process.

               Perhaps these ponderations of the existential were the reason for her expression. Then again, she could also be terrified of meeting her son, and what the Institute would do upon her arrival. Would Shaun recognize her? Would Shaun ever truly-

               With a curse under his breath, Deacon stood and paced a bit. Eight months had passed since he’d watched her approach the Old North Church from the bell tower on a bitterly cold November morning. He’d spent a lot of time with her after that day. They’d come to know each other fairly well. While he hadn’t fully bared his heart and soul yet, he knew that she hadn’t offered hers either. That hardly seemed to matter. He finally felt comfortable enough to let someone in. Going into this, he knew he was at risk of losing her in every way that mattered. Now that they were moments away, he was regretting the entire operation. There had to be something they weren’t thinking of.

               In his mind, there were four alternatives, none of which he liked. One - something could go horribly wrong and she would die. There would be no body to bury, no ashes scattered to the wind, no proof that she ever existed other than the memories he’d had of her. Two – upon finding Shaun, objectively nothing else would matter to her and he’d go back to being alone. Three – for some unforeseen reason, she would have to stay in the Institute to be with her son, and thus forever be an enemy.

               Four was the tricky one. While it verged on some level of Tinker Tom theory, it was also a very real fear of his – “Shaun” was a ploy. He didn’t really exist. Everything that had happened had been a very elaborate scheme to set her up right in the Railroad, and this was their way of taking their organization down once and for all. If she came back, she wouldn’t really be the Whisper he had come to know. She’d be a synth spy sent to systematically destroy everything they’d fought so hard to keep going. Not only would he lose his best friend, but he would fail Barbara again.

               Every alternative tore him apart in ways he wasn’t used to feeling. There were things he wanted to say, things he wanted to tell her about himself. He didn’t want her to die thinking he was worthy. Yet when he approached Whisper he met her with the same sarcastic guise he used in every other situation, “No worries, boss. Tinker Tom’s inventions usually work.”

               He immediately regretted his glib tongue when her pallor turned a haunting shade of green. It was in that moment he knew that she’d been focused solely on the maternal aspects of what would come next. Her voice shook as she returned his sarcasm, “I’m completely comforted.”

               Tense silence settled between them again. Deacon felt an odd sense of nausea build. It was all too familiar. He hadn’t felt it in twenty or so years. Suddenly, his mouth went dry, and the percussion of his quickening pulse filled his ears, drowning out anything else. P.A.M. would have told him there were too many unknown variables to predict the outcome of the situation, and that scared the shit out of him.

               “Yes!” Tinker Tom’s hiss pulled Deacon out of his own internal monologue. “Yes! I think we’re in business, baby!” The Railroad’s mad scientist turned to Whisper, pure fascination and enthusiasm lighting up every inch of his face. “You ready? ‘Cause once I get this monstrosity going, there ain’t no stoppin’ it.”

               Whisper finally moved, offering a nod in Tom’s direction. He rambled on about some diagnostics, and Desdemona took Whisper’s attention for a while. As she explained their connection within the Institute, Deacon took the chance to walk away and light up a cigarette. It was the only thing that could keep him sane in that moment.

               He’d just started on a second when Whisper put her hand on his shoulder. As tempting as it was to run away, her words pulled him in. “If I don’t make it, I need you to do something for me.”

               “Come on, boss…” Deacon drug every syllable out as he turned, “You know failure isn’t an option.”

               A hollow huff of air that sounded like a laugh left her. The emptiness of the sound was accompanied by darkened eyes. Ice shot up his spine as each ominous word passed through her lips, “You and I both know it’s unlikely I’ll make it out alive. Even if I succeed, I have no idea what’s waiting on the other side. I need you to take care of Codsworth for me.”

               Deacon fought hard as he could to stop his lips from forming an indignant line. She obviously saw this as a suicide mission. Their eyes locked, despite the cover of his sunglasses. _God_ , he begged, _don’t take her too._ Instead of betraying the confliction of rage and agony, he gave her an assured, “Fine, your wish is my…” He paused, then grinned as the words, “…strong recommendation,” left him. The grin and punch on the arm from his partner were anticipated and welcomed. It was probably the last time he would see her smile. 

* * *

 

_"Dammit Deacon," Whisper chastised as they tucked into a dilapidated building for the third time that day. "How much of your life have you wasted changing your clothes?"_

_"They're not_ just clothes _," he said pointedly. Whisper kept her back to him, making sure the door was secure in the event someone walked in. She had Deliverer ready at her side just in case. "I'll have you know they're carefully crafted identities. This one is named Lester!"_

_With a roll of her eyes, she put the gun on the counter that had served as a storefront two centuries ago. Behind, there was a rustle of clothes, then a thump. "Ow," Deacon whined. "We have a pinky toe down..."_

_"Serves you right," she huffed under her breath. Still, she threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was alright and instantly regretted that decision. His briefs had become a casualty in the changing process. "Jesus H. Christ."_

_"Serves_ you _right," he returned._

_She turned her gaze back toward the door, urging him on with, "I'd like to get to Diamond City sometime in the next week, Dee. Think you can manage to hurry up?"_

_"Can't rush beauty, Whisper. It's just not right." Even though he’d advocated patience, not even ten seconds passed before he was at her side._

_He could hear the agitation in her voice as she muttered, "Aren't you a vision?"_

_Deacon then donned a shit eating grin. "Stop, you'll make me blush!"_

_Two days before, Myrna had sent a runner to one of the nearby settlements to pass on a message. 'High quality metal as requested.' This was the next step in assembling the relay before they scoured hospitals for magnets. Deacon knew this was big, but his habits wouldn't change for a time crunch._

_"I know it seems trivial to you, but I've got some prized intel I need to pick up from the guards who think Lester is a swell guy. Besides, if we're going to be there for a few days, I might as well pick up some shifts to earn a few more caps. Can't hurt to be thorough." His argument was valid, she knew this. Intel was his job, after all. And anything that he considered prized could afford a two-minute swap of clothes._

_Whisper gave in with a heavy sigh. "You're right. Meet me at the Dugout tonight?"_

_"What, more moonshine and mutual masturbation? My three favorite 'm's!" He dodged a punch to the arm with a devious snicker. Then came the beeps of a mini nuke..._  

* * *

 

               The dreams had been plaguing Deacon all week. He’d witnessed the relay explode firsthand. No matter how many times he thought she might be seconds away from walking through the door, he had this nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was another hard loss. The bitter reminder of why attachments were just a liability wrapped up in a beautiful flash of eyes and teeth had soured his mood entirely. He could clearly remember each encounter that had led to this liability. And, even though he didn’t want to admit it, _that was the problem_. There was _something_ to admit.

               Dez had done the odious deed of scratching through Whisper’s codename the instant they had returned. It had hit harder than he anticipated. That visual reminder that Whisper would likely never come back crushed his soul. Try as he might, he couldn’t figure out why it hurt so fucking much.

               When another week passed, he was finally getting used to the idea of Whisper being gone. He couldn’t recall her husky rendition of Ella Fitzgerald songs as clearly. The smell of soap, or her homemade toothpaste were fading just as quickly. He craved the sight of her gorgeous smirk. The way her eyes would darken, but shine at the same time. She was the epitome of Old World beauty in his mind.

               _For fucks sake, I knew this was going to happen. Why did I let her go?_

               When Dez asked if he was ready for another mission, he accepted without hesitation. He needed a distraction.

* * *

 

               Whisper sucked in a sharp breath as soon as she stood once again near Coastal Cottage. The sudden assault of the midday sun burned her eyes. She placed her hands over her face, fighting off a sob. She’d been stuck in the Institute for three weeks talking to Shaun, making ‘friends’ with the scientists there, and gathering as much intel she could as requested.

               When she had gone inside the newly renovated and rebuilt cottage, she lay down on the dusty couch. Almost as soon as she curled up, she gave into the sobs that had ached for release. The agony eventually twisted in her gut, and rage filled her. The white-hot tears were blinding. Despite that, she managed to ruin every little thing she could get her hands on. Glass and porcelain shattered against walls, and brittle wood splintered apart as she wrenched curio cabinets and console tables from their resting places. Then a guttural scream tore at her vocal cords, and she sunk to her knees as the rage dissolved.

               After a moment, she stood again. Her knees shook from the emotions rattling around inside. She left the cottage, wrists wiping furiously at the tears, and set off for Boston with a newfound numbness settling into her bones.

                The world was abysmal and muggy. Her trek back to Railroad headquarters was fraught with danger she didn’t have the time or energy to deal with. Much of her journey was spent doubling back to find a safer, less challenging route. While she would have normally liked the task of bettering herself as a marksman, it wasn’t a priority. Internally, she was still struggling with the morality of surrendering to the will of the Railroad as it meant defying her flesh and blood. Would she be fighting for the friends she’d made along the way, or stick with a man whose face looked incredibly like the man she had lost so many years before?

                The more she thought of it, she realized that were it not for people like Nick, or Glory, she wouldn’t have found Shaun in the first place, or exacted some small amount of revenge on the man that had killed her husband in cold blood. The words ‘collateral damage’ rattled around in her head, repeating until it was a distant buzz. If she had taken Shaun when he fussed, and Kellogg had killed her, she would have been ‘collateral damage’ as well.

                Whisper wanted to scream again, and dissolve to the ground. She’d have teleported back then and there, grabbed the man by his collar and roared in his face about the vulgarity of his words. Her husband, the man she had loved so deeply, was not ‘collateral damage’. He was flesh, and love, and passion, and utterly incredible. The Institute was nothing but a den of thieves, taking loved ones in the night and discarding them without a care or second thought. To them, they were faces that could be recreated, and assimilated, and tossed away when use was no longer viable in their eyes. The Institute saw these people as data, not a family, or loved ones, or as someone of consequence to someone or other.

                Whisper then thought of Nick, who had been tossed just like the others. His world was naught but chaos and confusion after the Institute had had their fill of him. He’d completed whatever task they found use for him and threw him away. Since then, he had struggled, owning the memories of a man two centuries dead and found whatever way was best to cope.

                Then there were the others; Glory, H2, Jenny; to the Institute they were nothing more than property, but they felt, and thrived, and _lived_. Her research over the weeks she’d been there had turned up information on McDonough and someone else named Roger Warwick. McDonough would prove to be no use to these scientists if and when he was found out, and their ultimate end game was disposal. Roger Warwick’s situation was almost the same. When use for him failed, they would kill the synth incarnate, his family, and destroy all evidence of the Institute’s involvement. This was all for the sake of ‘Mankind. Redefined.’

                One day, when the Institute crumbled around Shaun’s feet, she would look him in the eye and let him know that he was not God, and he didn’t play the part well. Mankind was not some experiment, and it defined itself well without the interference of the cold and calculating.

                Whisper was at the threshold of the catacombs when she made the decision to work unbiasedly with the Railroad to whatever end.

**Author's Note:**

> All criticism and feedback welcome.


End file.
